The mighty trumpet's wondrous tone shall rend each tomb's sepulchral stone and summon all before the Throne.

So sez the Dies Irae, that oft-quoted Requiem Mass hymn which declaims in Latin rhyme the wave of judgment that’ll sweep the dead spirits of humanity at the end of time, and entreats providence to secure, among the saved souls, that of the speaker. One can sympathize with the impulse, of course, for with regards to faithful submission to the Sacred Mysteries, little inspires greater degrees of piousness than the unitive step of total annihilation. When we’re all brought low, we’re in true communion; when the real shit hits, we, mere humans, are doomed as one.

Small wonder, then, that the sound of a thickly-low-end gutter guitar and drum onslaught can doom us with equal force. It’s there in the sensory experience—the threatening emptiness at the start that fills us with a keen anticipatory paranoia of what’s to come, the distantly methodic drumming that relentlessly guides us on, the repeating guitar figure and lilting vocals we likewise can’t help following, and, our attentions by now wholly undivided, our movements no longer those of individuals, our union assured—a scream. BONEDUST awakens. Annihilation is rendered.

Yea, we’re in the presence of divinity, and thus may only proceed by question-and-answer catechism: Just what are we hearing? “God and Death conspiring,” Bonedust’s press offers, to tell “a love story that is the true origin of human suffering.” From where does this holy racket spill? Providence, RI’s Dirt Palace collective/art space. Who could be responsible? Members of VVLTVRE and Dr. Fuck Yeah, inveterate shredders way skilled in harnessing the transformative energies of raw dark performance power.